


Kneeling On Stone Tiles

by trustjack



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood, Church Sex, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Holy Communion | Eucharist, Non-Graphic Smut, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romantic Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 09:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustjack/pseuds/trustjack
Summary: It is the night before the world will change forever, the night before Raleigh Hawke and Anders will bathe Kirkwall in fire and unshackle mages from their bonds of oppression. The cries of the forsaken will echo through the streets of the City of Chains for centuries to come. And all Raleigh Hawke can think about is how his lips fall over her like stars, and their breathless declarations are still holier than those of saints dead and gone.





	Kneeling On Stone Tiles

**Author's Note:**

> this is a one-shot featuring my custom hawke, raleigh. enjoy :~)

                 The silence permeating the air that night was deafening, if such a thing could be said of silence. It seeped into Raleigh Hawke’s bones, rolling down her spine and onto the cold stone tiles. It would be peaceful, had it not been for the echoes of what was to come to come reverberating in Raleigh’s ears. Kirkwall’s Chantry had always stood as a beacon of something bigger than life—a symbol of the all-seeing, all-powerful might of the Maker. Standing tall, with flaming gold braziers paving the path of all His children, an immaculate white building which instils fear into enemies and hope into friends and lovers, statues of Andraste on each side of the entrance, reaching into the sky with her sharp and ready swords, daring any enemy of the Maker’s to rival her. Truly, the Chantry had no match—perhaps except for the Viscount’s Keep, however, even that paled in comparison to the glory of Kirkwall’s Chantry. Many came from across Thedas to witness its might. And now Raleigh would burn it all, as Andraste did slavery, as the Maker did sin.

                 The Chantry appeared serenely beautiful—as it always did to Raleigh’s eyes, but the blood of mage oppression soaked the ground from which this holy place had risen from for too long. She could smell it in the air, hear it in the quiet hum of the Chantry’s brothers and sisters as they sang their praises quietly in the adjoining rooms, feel it in the eternal cold of the pristine, stone floors. It felt dead and foul and antiquated. A new dawn was on the horizon—born from the Maker’s marrow, and Andraste’s blood, and that heavenly, that godly, that untouchable, human instinct for life. No longer would they defy her—defy them. Their faith and conviction would be baptised, holy and blazing, in fire and blood of nonbelievers, of oppressors long since forsaken by the Father.

                 That is what she had told herself all hours past when she had first knelt on those stone floors. She glanced from her clasped hands to the gold and gleaming statue of the Bride herself. Raleigh oft wondered what had been swimming in Andraste’s head when she waged war against Tevinter—when she decided that blood was the only acceptable currency. She liked to imagine it took her many moons spent whimpering and screaming and crying to the Maker, like she had, like her sister had, and her father, and his father before him. Like every mage in this forsaken world had. She liked to believe that she was there with her, every step of the way, that her spirit guided her hand, whispered in her ear, granted her the strength to carry on when everything seemed to weigh against her. She decided no matter the truth, she could not deny Andraste’s presence in the Chantry that night. There was something holy about kneeling in silence, with nought but prayers on her lips.

                 Raleigh prayed for solace, and strength, and the blazing righteousness with which to inspire her fellow mages. Raleigh prayed for many things. She prayed for Anders’s soul, she prayed for Carver and Bethany’s forgiveness—may at the Maker’s side they rest—, she prayed that her parents do not forsake her in her time of need, but most of all, she prayed for valour, vindication… Victory.

                  “I can’t understand how you bear to stay in this place,” a voice sounded behind her, wrought with something akin to hatred, “It represents everything we hate, everything we struggle against.”

                 Raleigh didn’t respond. Instead, she bowed her head, bidding the Maker and Andraste goodbye, promising to pray still tomorrow, after everything is over. And the day after, and the day after that, and every day until her last. As she did with every prayer. Once she finished, slowly did she stand, lifting herself with poise and elegance, as she did all things. Finally, she turned to Anders.

                 He stood beside the dais behind her, leaning against the banister, his arms crossed, eyebrows knit together in contemplation as he watched her.

                  “The love I bear for the Maker does not dispute any of my beliefs of mage freedom, and our rights as His children,” she replied simply, slowly approaching Anders where he stood. “Nor does it affect my love or devotion to you.”

                 A faint smile flashed across Anders’s lips, quickly disappearing under the foreboding glare in his tired and grey eyes. Raleigh trained her eyes on his, carefully unravelling his crossed arms and taking his hands tightly in hers. That seemed to draw him back in, as he squeezed her hands in turn.

                 Raleigh let a smile lift the corners of her lips. “There is nothing to fear, Anders. We will prevail, as is our right, as was our ancestors’ right. There is nothing we cannot overcome.”

                  “I should never have involved you,” he said after a long silence. “This is too dangerous, if you—if anything happens to you, I will never forgive myself. I would drown the entire world in blood to bring you back.”

                 Raleigh let a chuckle escape her as she looked at him. Her best friend, her lover, her family. Anders was everything to her—and she to him. She loved every part of him, even all the ugliness he tried so hard to hide, but no matter any of his flaws, self-doubt was destined to be the death of him.

                  “The dead stay the dead, Anders.” she teased, “Though I do appreciate your dedication.”

                 Anders’s lips twitched in the corners. “I’m serious.”

                  “So am I.”

                 Anders shook his head, an almost amused expression take hold of the sombreness which had been etched so finely into his features these past years. “Perhaps, I shouldn’t be surprised. You never worry. You never did.”

                 All Raleigh did was smile.

                  “Anders,” she whispered, breaking a long silence. Anders met her eyes intuitively. “I love you.”

                 He smiled. “I love you.”

                 As if to reinforce the sentiment, Raleigh pulled him in closer to her, placing one hand carefully on the back of his neck, dipping his lips to meet hers. As soon as they touched, Anders seemed to come to, his arms instinctively wrapping around Raleigh’s waist without concern, his lips moulding with hers in the way they had so many times before—with fire. He breathed life into her, his kisses taking on a force of storms.

                 As their kisses began to become impassioned, the heat in Raleigh’s core travelled down her body, and she let the flames to burn her fingertips, spreading warmth into Anders where she touched his skin. She felt the change in the way he held her, the way his mouth moved over hers, hungry and fearful, as if she would disappear from underneath his touch if he ever let go.

                 Raleigh tugged on his robe with fervency and impatience, as she did all things. Anders slipped his fingers underneath the belt of her finery, before stopping suddenly.

                  “We can’t.” he breathed. Raleigh could taste him on her lips like her favourite wine. “Not here, not now.” When she said nothing, Anders took her hand and began pulling her down the stairs. “We need to go, now.”

                 Raleigh followed him down slowly; before rushing down the last steps and pulling him behind her. She burst into one of the adjoining rooms of the Chantry, pushing him against the closest wall, her eyes reflecting that identical gleam of hunger held in his.

                  “I love you,” she breathed the words like a promise, slowly closing the gap between their lips, “I love you today, and every day until my last.”

                 Anders responded eagerly as Raleigh finally pressed her lips to his. His hands moved down her clothes, impatiently untying the laces and intricacies of her finery. Raleigh responded in kind, her fingers deft and quick against the ties of his robes. The cloth moved slowly down her body before dropping to the floor as Anders pressed his lips to her jawline, trailing kisses down her neck and into the hollow of her collarbone, spelling constellations with his tongue. _And yes, she believed his mouth was heaven_.

                  “I love you,” he murmured against her skin, moving slowly back towards her lips, looking earnestly into her eyes, soul laid bare before her and the Maker, “I love you today, and every day until my last.”

                 Raleigh smiled. She met his lips again, her gasping breaths colliding with his in the closeness of the prayer room, her hands travelling down his body, magic pulsating between them, every move a spark of electricity, a licking flame—they made a cathedral, his body pressing against hers, their entangled limbs branches of white light.

                 It was worship, in the plainest sense of the word. She took him inside her as if she were taking holy communion, every whimper, every breathless whisper, an ode to the sacrament of their love. His tongue trailing over her was a mosaic, entrapped in the sanctity of the moment.

                 _Yes, she believed their love was holy._


End file.
